#boycotts can crack oppression and they’ve done it before

[ao3bronte]

Smutember: Fingering

Masquerade on Ao3

16: Fingering/handjob

A sex scandal, a PR nightmare and an akuma attack all in one day; just a typical afternoon for Paris’ dynamic duo.

Or, as La Parisienne had so aptly put it:

CONFIRMED! Cities Having the Most Sex…Can You Guess Who’s on Top? (And it's not Ladybug!)

Marinette smashes her face into her pillow and screams as loudly as she can, kicking her feet hard enough to make her bounce around on the mattress. Alya had finally, finally pulled the video from her website but the damage had already been done. The screenshots were everywhere on Instagram, the GIFs all over Tumblr; it seems that everyone and their dog was talking about Chat Noir and Ladybug’s ‘nooky in the nook’ (thanks Cosmopolitan) and the press was having a field day.

Surprisingly, the reaction wasn’t entirely negative. It’s not like they were being praised or anything, but much of the focus was on their bodies. Considering the skin-tight nature of her suit, Marinette wasn’t entirely unaware that her physique was a constant source of interest on the internet and she figured the same fanaticism could be applied to Chat. After all, he had just as many raving fans as she did; the fan art and fanfiction on the internet could attest to that.

After that, the more pragmatic side of the world was looking into how their transformations took place, which had obviously never been captured on film before. It took away a lot of the initial sting since the television news stations couldn’t exactly air the footage due to the subject matter; instead, they had to focus on other aspects of the incident.

There were the haters of course. The American organisation One Million Moms was arranging protests in their country, declaring a television boycott on the two Parisian superheroes in order to save the decency of their children. Others were saying Chat was being too rough (somehow forgetting that Ladybug had been just as rough, if not more so) and that they were too young to be having sex. After all, the press didn’t know their ages and their reports varied wildly, pegging them anywhere from fourteen to twenty-two.

And that wasn’t even the worst part.

Marinette had been forced to wear a kerchief around her neck all day to hide the hickeys and even Alya had told her that she looked like she just walked off an Air France Boeing 747. Alya had tried to tug the scarf off and Marinette had clung to it like her life depended on it, so of course Alya was curious. Marinette tried to explain that she was covering a nasty zit with it and, when the bell rang, she escaped as fast as her feet could take her. She’d managed to evade Alya’s sticky fingers for the rest of the day, but the bruises wouldn’t be fading for at least another few days and no amount of concealer was going to save her.

And that wasn’t the even worst part either.

In true Le Papillon fashion, the supervillain decided today would be a great day to re-emerge from his two week absence and infect an angry lawyer, which meant that Marinette had to somehow sneak out of calculus to nip that in the bud. Mind you, the purification had been simple enough; the lawyer’s razor-sharp dossier of death had been no match for Chat’s cataclysme and they had everything tied up within ten minutes.

“So,” Chat attempts to break the ice, “How’s school?”

Marinette grabs his forearm and steers him away from the oncoming hoard of journalists, disappearing into a covered passage and running up the fire escape, “Oh, let’s see. Everyone in my school has seen me naked. So, you know, it’s been great.”

Chat ricochets off the stone wall and pulls her up with him until they’re on the roof, “I know. The girls in front of me in econ wouldn’t stop talking about my butt.”

“Yikes.”

Chat looks just as dazed as she feels, “It was…well, you had to be there. It was creepy.”

Marinette shivers and they set off towards the general direction of her school, “You’re telling me. My best friend won’t stop talking about it.”

“Mine too,” he dives between a clothesline and makes the next few bounds on all fours, easily keeping up with her, “It’s been surreal.”

She takes a sharp right and pauses at the brink of the boulevard, “Patrol tonight?”

“As always,” he replies, slipping his hand into hers for a moment, “We’ll talk later. I’ve got it get back to class.”

She gives his fingers a brief squeeze and waits until Chat has disappeared behind a building before yoyoing back to her school.

Back in her bedroom, Marinette sighs. That part wasn’t so bad, but still, sometimes it feels good to scream into a pillow and be dramatic, especially when pictures of your naked body are still trending worldwide.

When she’d ran home from school and opened the door to her parent’s bakery, her parents had been oddly subdued. She figured it had something to do with the oppressing heat making all of the measurements for their pastry recipes fall out of whack. It was extremely humid in the kitchens and her father asked her to try and fiddle with the air conditioning to get it flowing properly again.

“Is the cold air coming out?” Marinette hollers from the boiler room.

“Not yet!” her father booms from the kitchen and she jabs her fingers into the thermostat again, hoping to beat the ancient thing into submission by brute force alone. She wiggles the tiny handle and smacks her fist down over the top of it and all it does is pop, sputter and shut back down with a heaving clunk.

Marinette throws her head back and glares reproachfully at the ceiling, “Could this day get any worse?”

And now, with the house feeling more like the surface of the sun, Marinette screams into her pillow again and throws the offending cushion across the room for no better reason than that it feels good to do it.

“Marinette?”

She listens as her mother cracks open the trapdoor and reluctantly turns her head to acknowledge her, “Yeah?”

“Are you alright? I…heard screaming.”

Marinette sighs theatrically, “I’m fine mum. Just hot. And tired.”

Sabine makes her way into the bedroom and shuts the door behind her, “Are you sure? Do you need to talk about it?”

She barely keeps herself from snorting, “No, it’s okay. It’s just school and the heat, that’s all.”

“Alright,” Sabine nods but looks far from convinced. She pins Marinette with a knowing look, “Just remember, I’m here to talk if you need to. About anything, I mean it. I won’t get upset.”

The way she says it speaks of things Marinette has long suspected but never acknowledged, “I know but I really don’t want to talk about it right now. Maybe later.”

“Okay.”

Marinette closes her eyes and Sabine retreats back into the bakery, leaving her blissfully alone. She turns her head and peels one eye open, taking note of the time and closes it again.

Three hours left until patrol.

~

“Good evening,” he calls from behind her, landing on the railings of the Hermès building in the 8e arrondissement. They’ve long used the building’s private rooftop gardens as a meeting place and have spent many a warm evening tucked in behind the trees and shrubs, chatting the night away.

“It’s a terrible evening,” she sulks, crossing her arms over her chest. She’d brought a water bottle with her this time, determined to stay hydrated in this life sucking heat.

“I heat to agree with you but I’m feeling the burn.”

Marinette briefly fantasises about throwing said water bottle at his face, “I’m not in the mood.”

“Not in the mood for jokes?” he smirks, “I never would have guessed.”

“It’s been a rough day all right? I want to relax.”

“I can help you with that.”

“Good. Close your eyes, I need to get out of this suit.”

She drops her transformation as soon as he turns and sighs in relief when her skin is finally exposed, wearing only a soft tank and a pair of cotton shorts underneath. He opens his eyes and drinks in the length of her legs and the creamy skin of her thighs, so perfect and yet almost always covered. He’d only ever seen her in a skirt for the first time this week, his steady suspicions only confirmed further, especially since she’d disappeared during calculus at the same time he had. He wishes she would wear skirts more often, wishes he could dress her in some of the items in his father’s summer collection, all soft fabrics in flowing designs.

She lays down on the soft sod and closes her eyes, giving him a chance to detransform. He does so gladly, slips his mask on, and sighs when he finds himself back in the clothing he’d returned home in after the Versace fitting, perfectly tailored but altogether stifling in this heat.

Whoa.

“Ladybug?” he calls and his voice startles her, snapping her back to reality.

“What?”

He wiggles an eyebrow, “You’re looking a little red under that mask.”

“I am not,” she responds and flushes even more.

“I love it when you blush,” he hums, “Even your ears turn pink.”

She snorts, “Speak for yourself. You’ve swooned so hard I’ve had to scrape you off the ground before and you know it.”

“I have not,” he scoffs and sits down beside her. She tries to stay composed on the outside and bites her lip, conscious of the way she’s clenching her inner muscles and thighs together to relieve some of the pressure.

She sneaks a glance at him, dressed to the nines, and finds him watching her, a little grin spreading on his lips. She feels the familiar rush in her stomach that comes with the sudden onslaught of arousal and god, she wishes he would just crawl between her legs and be done with it. She doesn’t know whether it’s the heatwave or the itch beneath her skin but she can’t help the way she reacts as she inches closer and he leans in, his breath ghosting over the shell of her ear, “Let me make you come.”

She nods and turns her face towards him, their noses brushing, and he cups her face in her hands. He kisses her then, soft and hot and everything she’d been craving, burying his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck. She responds, expert and bruising, and brushes her hands up his chest and neck and cheeks, rough with facial hair.

“Slob,” she chastises teasingly, grazing her knuckles against the rough texture.

“It took me a while to get ready this morning,” he blushes.

“Did I tire you out last night?”

Her teasing only makes it worse, “Yes. It was the best sex of my life.”

She may be the queen of baiting him but he’s always been able to knock her down a few pegs with his sheer and brutal honesty, “Oh.”

She’s falling back into the grass and his body slots between her legs like it belongs there and now, after all this time, she’s starting to believe it really does. Like Tikki had told her a thousand times already, a Chat Noir always finds his Ladybug eventually, no matter the odds against them.

Crawling over her, he hitches her legs upwards and hooks them around his hips, slender and addictive. She kisses him breathless and lets her mouth travel down his jaw and neck and collarbones, dissolving him into a puddle between her arms. She loves that these simple gestures, these effortless acts of adoration make him melt like putty in her grasp and smiles into his skin, transferring every ounce of her newfound love into her kiss.

She undoes his dress shirt, a slim fitted cotton poplin with mother of pearl buttons, and tries not to wince as she slips it off his shoulders and throws it into a shrub. She eyes the tag as she does so and tries not to choke at the fact that the Burberry shirt probably cost more than her three month bakery allowance.

She breathes out and slowly surveys him with starving eyes, revelling in the way he squirms under the appraisal of his body and she flattens her hands to his exposed abdomen, running them slowly upwards until they graze his rib cage and nipples.

He gasps, “Ladybug…”

“Make as much noise as you want,” she breathes into his ear, wishing she could rub her thighs together to diffuse the intense arousal she feels, “I want you to be loud for me tonight.”

“Loud?” he gulps.

“Well, all of Paris knows we’re having sex. What’s there left to lose?”

Marinette cannot believe the words coming out of her mouth. Who is this person and what has she done with her common sense?

He gasps as she rolls them onto their sides and leans into him, running her tongue and lips over his collarbones and chest. She nips at one of his nipples lightly before laving it with her tongue, bucking her hips against him. He groans, his eyes fluttering open and he feels hard and urgent against her core, turning her on even more.

He pulls her on top of him and his hands circle her waist, pulling her towards him and her clit is unequivocally throbbing at this point; she's been aroused for hours ever since she watched that stupid video and being around him doesn't exactly help stifle the heat and the itch.

"Up," he urges and she raises her arms, kissing him as he pushes hr shirt up and over her head. He unclasps her bra and she grabs the back of his neck, nuzzling him and enjoying the way her bare chest feels against the texture of his skin. He smiles into the kiss and runs those long, slender piano fingers of his through her hair, seemingly content to hold onto her for as long as he can.

He hooks one of his arms around her body and pushes her back against the grass, rolling a nipple between his fingers and drawing a gasp from her lips, "Our lives are insane," he mutters against her skin and she chuckles breathlessly.

"It could be worse," she admits, pulling back to press a kiss to the side of his neck, "I don't know how, but it could be worse."

"At least we looked good," he clutches her head against his neck and wills her to continue sucking marks into his skin. He’d spent a half hour covering them with concealer this morning but he couldn’t care less about that now, bucking his hips and sneaking his hand beneath the waistband of her shorts.

He pops the button open and slides the zipper down, slipping his fingers beneath her lace panties, "Have I told you how much I love you today?"

She's practically vibrating with anticipation at this point, watching eagerly as he sits up to pull her shorts down her thighs. He tosses them behind him and pulls her panties off as well, chuckling as she waves them around when they get caught on her ankle. He eyes her appreciatively, completely naked before him, and lets his fingers explore her body, ghosting over her inner thighs.

"You haven't," she replies, leaning back into the greenery. She whines as he just barely skims the sensitive skin there, her lips parting in pleasure.

"Let me make it up to you," he purrs, laying on the grass between her legs. He rubs circles with his thumbs on the crease where her thighs meet her hips before slipping back down to spread her knees. He raises one and Marinette catches on immediately, hooking them up and over his shoulders.

Without so much as a word, Chat dives in and cleaves her open with his tongue, pressing it against her clit. Her hips buck upwards from the sod and he grins against her, tucking one hand under her ass to squeeze and sliding the other up towards his face.

"Hng!"

He slips a finger inside her as he strokes her clit with his tongue and pumps them in and out experimentally, drawing the most delightful sounds from her throat. He explores her, his tongue thorough and languid, roaming over her clit with practiced ease, having found himself between her thighs so many times before. It was becoming their default and Chat couldn’t find it within himself to complain, not with the way his cock is reacting. Alone, he’s finding that his fantasies seem to revolve around getting her off this way, coming to the memorised sounds of her rasps and screams.

Marinette’s eyes threaten to roll to the back of her head as he nibbles on her clit, sending her reeling. She gasps his name and fists a hand in his hair, tugging and yanking and he seems to enjoy it, speeding up his movements in a way that’s making her soaked with need and passion and oh, he’s moaning against her clit and she tightens her thighs around his head because ah!, he’s slipping another finger inside her and he’s pumping in and out in fervour and fuck, this feels so good, so good and she’s so close, so close and—

“Oh! O-h! Chat!”

She shudders and can’t help the way her hips react, bucking off the grass and he holds fast, scissoring his fingers and prolonging her orgasm until all she can do is pant and stare in a sex induced daze at the stars above them, her body throbbing in post orgasmic bliss.

“So? Did I make it up to you?”

He crawls back up her body and she slams her lips against his, tasting herself and sending another pulse of heat between her legs. He moans and presses himself against her, still trapped in his perfectly pressed trousers that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”